18. Tristan #3
“By tomorrow morning, the Lancaster board is freezing every single one of those assets,” Tristan said.
Eleanor lowered her chin, her eyes widening as the terror finally took hold.
“You wouldn’t dare cut my access,” she said.
Tristan stepped closer, stopping inches from the table.
He looked down at the woman who spent months orchestrating his wife’s public execution.
She weaponized polite society to tear Marianne apart.
She hid behind her checkbook, delivering devastating insults with a pleasant smile during the gender-reveal dinner.
He wanted her to absorb the humiliation. He wanted her to feel the exact same vulnerability she force-fed his wife.
“You labeled Marianne a social climber because you genuinely believe money is the only thing that gives a human being worth,” Tristan said.
Her fake friends and high-society sycophants only tolerated her because she paid for the centerpieces. Without the Hawthorne accounts, she was nothing but a woman trapped in an empty mansion. The invitations would dry up. The charity boards would replace her.
“Let’s see how many of your elite friends keep calling when the credit cards decline and your charity influence vanishes overnight,” Tristan said. “Enjoy the empty mansion.”
Winston began to hyperventilate at the head of the table. A dark flush spread across his face. He reached up and clawed at his starched shirt collar. The expensive tie twisted under his desperate grip. A ragged wheeze rattled in his throat.
Eleanor took a step backward, shrinking away from her husband’s volatile collapse. She clutched her handbag against her ribs, offering zero comfort or support to the patriarch. Their unified front dissolved the second the money vanished.
Tristan planted his feet against the carpet. He let the harsh sound of his father’s ragged breathing fill the room. The great chairman used to terrify him. Now, watching the old man struggle for breath, Tristan only saw a pathetic coward.
“You are a disgrace!” Winston screamed, spit flying from his lips to land on the wood. “I am calling the attorneys to legally disown you this second!”
Winston leaned his weight against the edge of the table. He glared down the length of the room, trying to project the dominance he no longer had.
“You are stripped of the Hawthorne name,” Winston shouted. “And you will not see a single dime from my estate!”
Tristan did not move a muscle in retreat. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, watching the older man struggle for air. The threat of disinheritance used to dictate every decision Tristan made in this room. He spent twelve years terrified of losing his seat at this table.
He used to bend his life to earn his father’s approval. He let this man tear his wife apart at a catered dinner just to keep the peace and protect the stock price. He stood by in silence while Eleanor branded Marianne a social climber. He regretted the cowardice of those choices.
He actually thinks the name is a prize.
The old man genuinely believed the Hawthorne title was a crown to be hoarded. He didn’t understand the rot it carried. He didn’t realize that shedding the legacy was the ultimate victory.
“Wearing your name is the greatest regret of my life,” Tristan said. His voice cut through the old man’s shouting. “And you can’t disown a man who just sold your legacy to your worst enemy.”
Winston slammed his fists against the table. The impact rattled the discarded tablets scattered across the wood. He fell back on his usual rage, desperate to regain the upper hand.
“I will bury you in the financial press!” Winston roared. “I will make sure you never work in this sector again!”
Let him scream. Let the press run the headlines. The business channels could broadcast the collapse on a continuous loop. Tristan welcomed the public destruction. None of the prestige mattered anymore.
The only thing of value Tristan pulled from this wreckage was the liquid cash payout currently sitting in his personal accounts.
He secured the buyout funds hours ago. The only thing left to do was march straight to his law firm and sign every last penny of that Lancaster money over to Marianne.
He wanted to strip his own accounts bare.
He wanted to kneel in front of his wife with empty pockets.
“Lancaster is liquidating this executive floor at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, Winston,” Tristan said. “And you are the very first casualty on their list.”
Winston opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. The reality of the liquidation schedule finally set in. Winston’s shouting died in his throat, leaving behind a wheezing, powerless man.
“I have the cash payout for my equity, and I am done with all of you,” Tristan said. “Enjoy the fallout.”
He turned his back on them and walked away from the center of the room, heading straight for the exit. He pushed through the doors. The latch snapped shut behind him, cutting off the noise. He marched down the corridor, leaving the devastation behind, finally free to return to his wife.